Had a few nice emails about my balloon pics yesterday, which was nice, because the family were certainly unimpressed. In fact whenever I try to show or tell my family anything important to me they get bored and walk out of the room after five seconds. I obviously need to brush up my skills in delivering a punchy 15 second sound byte, like I used to have to as a kid when 5-10 seconds was all the attention I could muster from my mother in between her soaps. Just in case you were wondering where my intense need for approval comes from.
Hmmm, what else. Not much. It was the last episode of the X Files, sniff, but I set the tape to watch it later, when I'm not so tired and crabby as it was a long hot day yesterday and either the sushi I'd craved or the walk home or both had me being as sick as a dog last nihgt and today - and my swipe card isn't working today which has made it just so much more special, because you have to swipe in and out to go to the Ladies but never the Mens. Such is my life. Maybe I'll drop another dress size. We can but hope.
Next to the sushi shop the cafe that had been there forever was torn out and a disposal bookstore had moved in - which is bad because remaindered books are like crack cocaine where I'm concerned. Managed to make it back out the door with a couple of art books (I use the pics for inspiration, though another go at the Louvre or the Met would be better) and a book on cacti, all for just under $20. I'm thinking when my garden goes back it'll be low maintenance and drought resistant and the book had lots of pretty inspirational pictures of cacti in pots. I'm debating a phallic theme. I mean, can't you just imagine my storm battered statue of David surrounded by a host of proudly thrusting cacti? I can just imagine the comments from mother's friends (who disapprove of my cheap plaster nudes). It's enough to make me want to start stockpiling cacti now - evil grin.
More SNAFU, rated PG for things that go bump in the night:
Jack ran into the cave, turning around to see if he'd been followed, but he hadn't. Not even the friendlies, the young men from his adopted tribe, had followed him into the cave. Jack was about to walk out there and ask them what was so damn appealing about getting a blow dart shot up your arse when he brushed against a trailing root hanging down from the mouth of the cave. He tried to pull it away but it was sticky and fibrous and it clung to him like superglue and it resisted his attempts to saw himself free, making his knife feel like it was one of those little plastic knives that weren't even up to the job of spreading butter.
"Uh, guys, a little help here," he asked, and as they all stared at him in horror, to a one, he heard something stirring above him. A dry rasping sound like the scratch of a plastic toothed comb against stone. Oh. Crap.